"Is it a bad one?" I said.
"It's just one of my headaches," said the lady of the house.
"But some of your headaches," I said, "are different from others. Some——"
"This," she said, "is one of the different ones."
"Is it like those you have when Mrs. Martlet comes to collect on behalf of the Chimney-Sweeps' Aid Society? I mean, will it yield to treatment in about an hour?"
"No," she groaned; "it's even worse than those. It's all over my head."
"Oh, but if that's the sort I'm all sympathy. Only tell me what I can do. Are cold compresses any good? Or the doctor? It might be measles, you know. All the best people have measles now. Real measles, I mean; not the German sort. Shall I start isolating you? They tell me I'm a first-class isolater."
"No," she said, "don't do that. It sounds so heartless."
"Well," I said, "if there's anything else in reason I'm your man."
"I want you," she said, "to go to London."